TWO CHEERS FOR TREASON
January 6, 2021
A mob stormed the Capitol
killing five police, wounding over 100.
Some were blindly loyal to Trump,
taken in by his “stolen election” line;
others were simply spoiling for a fight.
But-- despite the gallows prepped and ready,
Mike Pence didn’t get hung.
Despite Senators willing to double-cross voters,
replace electors with puppets,
and kiss the incumbent’s ring,
each state’s votes were ratified.
And despite Trump’s sore-loser grousing,
he wound up a lame duck.
December 12, 2022
MTG boasts to the NY Young Republicans Club:
“I gotta tell you something.
If Steve Bannon and I had organized that,
we would have WON.
Not to mention, it would have been armed.”
Here’s a Representative from Georgia
bragging that she could have pulled off
a better insurrection.
She would have brought more firepower,
blasted her way through those cops.
She would have marched over the dead and wounded,
defeated Congress, and forced their hand.
She would have WON.
Backed by guns and slogans,
she would have awarded Trump the oval office,
perhaps President for life.
Is this payback for Appomattox?
Rebellion not quelled, just postponed?
Trump’s infantry was a mix of malleable misfits,
Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, Q-Anon fruit-loops,
and politicians with an eye to the main chance.
January 6 was the day they’d change the world.
If a cult figure mouthing MAGA
could be enthroned at gunpoint,
kingmakers would hold undisputed power.
We would have won.
January 3, 2023
MTG places her hand on a bible
and swears to uphold the Constitution.
Are her fingers crossed?
She bragged she could bring the US to its knees--
if she led that mob;
if she armed the rioters
so they could gun down law enforcement;
if she took possession of the Capitol
to thwart Congress’ Constitutional job.
Her victory? Sabotaging a presidential election.
It makes one wonder:
should a person who cheers for gun-toting thugs
be running our country?
Should a person who brags about trashing ballots
be making laws?
Georgia’s white, rural 14th District thinks so.
They re-elected her,
despite her off-the-wall statements--
Jewish space lasers cause California wildfires.
Vaccinations are the devil’s “mark of the beast.”
Black Lives Matter protesters are terrorists.
Undocumented immigrants are rapists.
Transgender individuals are predators.
Abortion seekers and providers are murderers.
Democrats are pedophile-coddling Communists.
MTG hopes to be Trump’s running mate in 2024.
Trump, too, thinks his defeat so outrageous
that it justifies suspending the Constitution.
The two are salt and pepper shakers
showering spite and bile on a fragile democracy.
Abetting a taste for hate.
Copyright 12/2022 Patricia Doyne
TRUMP’S VIRTUES
Trump’s gung-ho to run again
in 2024.
He says it wasn’t fair that he
got booted out the door.
Many think him crass, it’s true.
Self-serving. Prone to lies.
But maybe narcissistic traits
are virtues in disguise.
He is, despite his girth and weight,
a physical fitness buff.
Visited golf links 308 times,
spent a quarter of his term on golf.
When shooters shoot up schools and malls
we know guns aren’t for Trump.
Five times he dodged his country’s draft.
Said casualties were chumps.
And family values is a realm
where Trump does truly shine.
Jared and Ivanka flaunt
his regime’s family line.
Forget two dozen rape reports
and Stormy Daniels’ book,
‘cause family pride glows in third wife
Melania’s well-dressed look.
What’s more, he reaches out a hand
to one-time foes. (Don’t groan.)
He sends love notes to Kim Jong-Un,
gets an $18 million loan.
When journalist Khashoggi died
at the consulate in Turkey,
“Bin Salman ordered it,” said the CIA.
Trump said the facts were murky.
And when Trump won, a Russian hand
pulled strings. The CIA spied it.
Said, “Russia, leave our elections alone!”
Shrugged Trump, “Putin denied it.”
Yes, Trump extends a welcoming hand
to strong men he admires.
Sells airplanes, crude oil, tanks and guns
to somewhat shady buyers.
And Trump’s an open-minded man.
When Neo-Nazis march,
he sees good people on both sides,
beneath free speech’s arch.
When Ye claims Hitler’s misunderstood,
and Fuentes flat denies
the Holocaust was real, that’s cool.
“Respect their views,” Trump cries.
His bosom buddies—Roger Stone,
Steve Bannon, Alex Jones—
show how Trump welcomes one and all,
especially pale skin-tones.
He disses “shithole countries.”
He tried to build a wall.
Just goes to show that Trump was true
to MAGA’s siren call.
And Trump’s unique. Never before
a President twice impeached.
He’s going down in history—
for January 6th, at least.
So if you want to bad-mouth Trump,
Please take careful note
of all his virtuous qualities
when you step up to vote.
Copyright 12/2022 Patricia Doyne
Q-ANON MEETS QVC
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
reveal the winner I really am—
not a fat old suit with a long, red tie,
tan from a tube, hair fussed and sculpted.
No, show my base their favorite President--
Better than Lincoln!
Better than Washington!
Show the whole world the superhero
who should have won.
A MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT:
(Drumroll)
Digital Trading Cards!
Only $99 each.
Send your money, we’ll choose your NFT.
Take what you get; what you get is virtual.
It exists in the ether,
like the image, like the “very exclusive community”
I’m selling.
See me in a cowboy hat and duster,
a western lawman.
See me dominate the room in a black tuxedo.
See me suited for space, two feet on the moon.
See me alone on a bleacher-ringed field,
owning that football.
See me speeding to the rescue on a white horse.
See me in a mild-mannered blue suit
ripping open my shirt to reveal a red “T”
and scald the world with laser eyes.
The face is mine, but photo-shopped bodies
are all young and buff.
The world needs superheroes.
But the world’s got me.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
show the world I’m what they really want
virtually.
Copyright 12/2022 Patricia Doyne
No Xmas Tree
Just an empty bottle
of very good whiskey,
2 women, and a drink
during the course
of a week that ended
with us not speaking
to each other since.
I put a rose like those
I steal from the neighbors
garden in said bottle
as I reminder
there is much beauty
In this world.
Even with the women gone.
The knife one of them
threw at me for looking
at her friend’s legs remains
on the floor where it landed
after hitting the wall and
missing me by a foot.
A reminder that
any New Year’s Eve
even for a man with little
to lose can be more
curious than planned.
I/he does not mind
the things they stole
or borrowed with ill
intent.
Who alone with
all that once was
still reaches for
what lingered sweet
long enough to be
savored.
His wedding ring
lost in a desk
alongside knowledge
she pawned hers.
He places a comically
large Seashell to ear
just to hear the sea
scream for the past
like him
on most days.
She's OK Almost
She says but
her glazed eyes lost
pinpoints of
confusion
tell me different
and her
skin sallow
with track marks
I can't tell if
old or new
just that
they tell a story
I already know
the ending to.
We talk of poetry
we performed
once, together
apart
to smatterings of
applause long
ago. Of those we
thought we knew
under lights
spilling their souls
with captivating
corrupted
vehemence.
But she hasn't
read in years.
Tells me I look
like I'm doing well.
She's offended
when i ask if
she needs
money...
yet takes what I give
waving as she walks
away into the
darkness on
an unusually
otherwise bright
sunny day.
Ex On the Street
Not being invisible
or able to hide
when she spots
me first with
X-ray eyes.
The air, getting thinner
when she hugs me,
as if we’re still together,
as if that fatal night
hadn’t happened.
Then she says
that I look good,
that I’ve lost weight,
but I don’t and haven’t,
staring at her smiling face.
Love demands forgiveness
but losing your lover
& your best friend
in one cruel night
I never counted on.
I say goodbye 5 times.
It’s like she doesn’t hear
my last image of her,
him in her mouth,
in our bedroom, clear.
One of us was in love
and the other escaped
as I do now with alacrity
all shaken and wounded
by a past now present.
Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in NYC, has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, and Runcible Spoon.
It is misting this morning. So, I open the door to my mouth, unattired, bring out my tongue, to kiss waters, undiluted.
And this is a great healing:
Our village market has so many routes. I mean there are ways to live in places where air is not measured with a needle’s eye.
And this is a path to life: bonding––
bond to what gives you hope, to what gives you a clan, to what or who calls your name each time a gusty wind makes itself known
and news about broken things hover around.
So I ask: when harmattan visits, will you take me as your tropical plant and spray on me fine droplets? Will you?
Calling for Waters
Because I know darkness is a pebble in search of a home within me, I call for a drink of water be it ice falling from heavens, morning misting on leaves, a drop of tears from rocks or the salty sea enclosing borders to flush them beyond death chamber before they know the sweetness of success. Because every day knows the hug of night, I mean to say light is a man and darkness is a beautiful maiden standing along the lane to our home, waiting to mould us into victims of fate; (but fate is not a living thing) I call waters from the depth of holy well for cleansing. So I would sight only white angels chanting my name into unending life. Because I discover my demons are sour salts, I poke the rock holding me captive. What proceeds out of it I call fluid, you can call it waters from within me. So my demons would know the feel of body melting into pain, into grief. Because I love the sound of the drum echoing: life is a lollipop in the hands of a toddler, I call upon waters to heal me, in every way possible.
Become Waters
There is fire burning beneath my skin. It is ruthless than the kind of fire your clergy makes you see on worship days. Do not imagine this. Some caked bread are better not shared––I’ve swallowed this one. This is not me displaying my pains on a 5D screen. The smokes erupting from my body is the reason the neighbourhood’s nose breathed questions. And yes, this is the answer you seek. Forgive me. I am stingy with the spirit. Let my body alone be filled with it until I am reduced to fine particles on the palms of earth, until I become the regalia of ash worn by wind. Be alive, yes live in a peaceful piece but become waters––water is life. Become waters. Be alive. Be life itself. Friend, I shall burn. A cut of this fire said so in a foreign tongue–– it took me a while to crack this hard nut. Forgive me I did not tell you soon enough that I am the brown pigment on your roof. In a flash, be waters––hug me into life eternal. You live. I would leave and live in you.
Song Title: Take The First Step
Genre: Pop
Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)
Verse 1
They say ‘the journey of a thousand mile begins with a step’
Yea, taking a step could be very herculean
Fear of failure would suffice as the rationale
However, taking the risk is worth it
After all, failing forward is better than not stepping out
The journey of success begins with taking the first step
So, take the giant stride
Take the first step!
Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (2ce)
Verse 2
Discouragement is a part of success
Success is a journey, not a terminus
Determination without conception is like reaching a destination without intention
Consistency is inevitably important
Life is what you make of it
Walk your talk to see your worth
You learn those only if you take the first step
Now, take the first step!
Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)
Verse 3
The first step in life is uneasy;
It’s like you taking the bull by the horn
It’s similar to how tasking it would be putting the crown on your head
The first step is a lesson that would give room for further learning;
It’s like getting past the hurdles of life
It’s similar to taking away life’s road blocks
The first step marks the road to your freedom
A great feat it would be when you take the first step!
Chorus
Take the first step (2ce)
And see what comes out of it (3ce)
TRUJILLO
You are a town spun in history, from Cristóbal Colón’s last voyage to a port protected from pirates by the Spanish Fortaleza Santa Bárbara, from the first capital of this nascent country to the execution of filibuster William Walker. Many had their embassies here: France, Spain, England, the US.
And both United Fruit and Standard Fruit left their cobwebs, too.
~ ~ ~
I wander through the odd clutter of Señor Galván’s museum. A band’s musical instruments, collections of coins and bills. Ship anchors and moorings. Old wine and patent medicine bottles. Treadle sewing machines, branding irons, the chair and bed of a man who lived to be 106. Mayan artefacts from the sierra. Assorted alligator and shark skulls. Caged monkeys reaching for a human hand.
And from the Companies themselves. A Standard Fruit lamp and sugar cane press. A United Fruit telephone and fan, railroad jacks, a brakeman’s lantern. And a 1940s brick of the Yunay Fruit Co. Mamita Yunai … United Fruit
Out front corrodes the wreckage of a C130 that crashed near Puerto Castilla. All 21 crewmembers were killed from Howard AFB in Panama. It was never explained to us what this plane was doing here that 22 January ’85 … in Contra territory.
~ ~ ~
I am spellbound by the tangled web. I pass days talking with Mr Galván and in the public library unraveling history.
For only a short two years did Vaccaro Brothers and Co (later Standard Fruit) spin its domain eastward to here. Those siblings had their fincas of sugar cane and syphilis-curing sarsaparilla. They timbered the precious hardwoods of these surrounding jungle hills.
Afterwards United Fruit came (in 1904, Señor Galván says) and later hid under the guise of the Trujillo Rail Road Co. For lands in this area, it promised to build the railroad to Jutigalpa and beyond to Tegucigalpa. It laid the line from port to plantations: Puerto Castilla and Trujillo to Olanchito, Tocoa, Savá and no further. Amid excuses of land blackened by sigatoka, United left in 1940, before the Honduran government could confiscate the fincas and rails for not fulfilling its contract.
When the Boston Octopus pulled out, families sold their furnished homes for a mere 400 Lempiras. Still, to this day, some rich people have a hundred houses or more.
And so this town fell into a quiet backwater. Black Caribe and whiter ladino intermarried. Over the years, the memories faded. Only Mr Galván remembered why the Fruit Company submerged a train east of the pier: To protect the beachhead from erosion. The plantations way out yonder changed once more to Standard Fruit.
In the 1980s, the US-Contras arrived with training camps and cocaine-for-arms trade routes. Within these jungle swamps, the US military had clandestine bases (or so say its veterans, in fear-hushed voices).
And little by little, the foreign travelers came, seeking the tranquil sea, the safe beaches, a town free from crime.
A new posh resort is built, The Christopher Columbus. Ninety-two full-time staff but few guests. The locals say it’s a CIA den owned by Ollie North, Secord and former-Contra friends.
And after almost 90 years, Standard Fruit makes its return. A high concrete wall with barbed wire surrounds the eight or so unseen houses within. Strong floodlights safeguard the grounds. These are the homes of the CEOs who work at Puerto Castilla.
~ ~ ~
One evening in a pleasant hide-away café – with rattan chairs, glass-topped tables, plants, English newspapers – an ex-pat United Statien tells the owner and me her family wants to move from Tela. The scene is getting too heavy there – the crime, the cocaine. They have found a house near the Company’s complex. But it has no electricity. They must ask Standard Fruit for permission to put it in. Its security comes first.
When I first came to Trujillo during Christmas holidays in ’93, I could stroll alone several kilometers along the beach. I’d leave my belongings on the powdery sand and swim in that crystal-blue Caribbean.
But two years later, with clenched fists and teeth, trujillanos tell me, It isn’t safe any longer to walk those isolated stretches. Inlander ladinos are migrating in search of the work the tourism surely brings. But there are no jobs … One night from Olanchito they came to the Garífuna bars in Cocopando. A white woman danced with a black man. Six redneck ladinos shot up the place.
Two more years or so pass. One evening, walking through town, seven foreigners are robbed and stabbed. One dies.
And that cocaine now floats like a blizzard along these ex-Contra coastal routes.
